Riding the magic carpet of that fantastic plastic money in the sunset
of civilization, on a working vacation, Liz & Beth, snortin' meth, do
their best to detest the rest of Western civilization. In the rarefied atmosphere
of the credit world, they're walking, talking, gawking scandalous social
commentators. Dippy, ultra-hip hypocrites. Stupendously stupid flunkies
shopping like junkies. Too much stuff is never enough, I know it's rough,
that's tough. Look at this mess. Confess, how many possessions can you possess?
They're culture vultures circling, without pity, the silly, sloppy cities,
criticizing the society that makes existence persistent, for Beth &
Liz, that is.
Down below, dumpster divers delve deliriously into delicious debris. Whee!
It's free! Dumpster Dan, the garbage can man rescues used, abused refuse
from yous, for recycled reuse. It's a non-stop cash-trash-crop, mining the
pre-landfill swill, if you have the will to flirt with dirt. There're treasure
caches stashed in trash. It's the ridiculous resumption of conspicuous consumption.
Garbage rights ignites into fights.
Down at the He-Har Bar, bar-stooled beer-bellies are buffing bar-rails
and elbowing mugs o' suds in dirty duds while watching babes wrestle in
mud. The bustin'-ass workin'-class put their foot upon the brass and sink,
stinking, into drink. A crowd of loud, proud, over-endowed lowbrows hunkers
in the beer-bunker drowning sorrows until tomorrows.
High above the greasy streets the elegantly seated Elite eat meat on fine
china. It's an exquisite setting, replete with Chateau La Fite'. I remind;
they're inclined to whine, dine and wine, trying to unwind. Surrounded by
ample samples of supreme cuisine. Culinary creations, artfully crafted into
dynamic displays of dietary dementia tower, teetering, on tables. Dastardly
old delinquents devour their undeserved decadent desserts with delight.